Composition4

The Inquisition fields no army. It fields an authority. A single Inquisitor and a hand-picked retinue of Throne Agents — a psyker, an anti-psyker, an assassin, a tech-adept, a mailed Crusader — each a different instrument turned against a different heresy. Where other forces win by weight of numbers, the Inquisition wins by the exactness of its tools and by the seal its master carries: the mandate that compels the wider Imperium to fight at its side.

That mandate is Requisition, the retinue's defining power. An Inquisitor's word presses Space Marines, Battle Sisters, Guardsmen and the tempered killers of the Officio Assassinorum into service they owe no formal duty. The borrowed muscle is never truly owned — every requisitioned body takes the place of one of the Inquisitor's own, so a retinue that borrows heavily marches thinner for it.

There is no swarm here, and no miraculous save. Endurance is honest carapace plate, a bought rosarius field on the master, and a handful of resilient elites. The Inquisition is the surgeon's answer to the galaxy's rot: few hands, each holding the precise blade the wound demands, and the authority to call down heavier steel when the blade is not enough.

The Ordo Malleus hunts the daemon — the thing that should not be, dragged screaming from the far side of the veil. Its warbands are small and elite: a warded psyker-Inquisitor and a hand-picked retinue, every body a specialist and none of them wasted. Where lesser forces meet the warp with courage alone, the Malleus meets it with method. A collective faith wards the retinue against psychic assault, the null-rod and the psyk-out charge gut the enemy's presence in the immaterium, and the force-blade does not merely wound a daemon — it banishes the animating spirit back whence it came. When the incursion runs deeper than mortal flesh can hold, the Inquisitor spends the one seal no other may bear: he calls down the Grey Knights, the Emperor's sanctioned daemon-killers, to break what his retinue cannot. This is a toolbox warband — the right ward, the right blade, and the right reinforcement for whatever came through. Against a foe that carries no warp at all the ward falls silent, and the Ordo leans on cold discipline and borrowed muscle instead.